The notes became conversations. Jenny from IT started leaving questions: "How did you know about the database architecture?" Michel would respond with solutions sketched on yellow Post-its, his handwriting careful to disguise years of executive signatures. A dance of anonymity, knowledge passed between shifts like secrets.
Three weeks into their paper dialogue, Jenny worked late. Michel was debugging her code when fluorescent lights flickered on. He froze, hands still on her keyboard, caught between worlds.
"I knew it." Jenny stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, triumph and confusion fighting for space on her face. She was younger than he'd imagined—maybe thirty, wearing a Doctor Who t-shirt and the exhausted look of startup life. "Nobody in custodial writes SQL like that."
Michel straightened, pulling dignity around him like armor. The mop bucket waited by the desk, accusatory.
"You're the Michel Martinez," she breathed. "Your logistics protocols are legendary. We still use your frameworks. Why are you—" She gestured at his uniform, the question dying as she saw his face.
"Because my family needs to eat," he said simply. "And this is honest work."
Jenny was quiet for a long moment, processing the executive who'd become janitor, the man whose systems she'd studied now emptying her trash. Michel waited for pity, for awkwardness, for the careful distance people maintained around the fallen.
Instead, she sat down, pushing a chair toward him. "My startup needs someone who understands systems. Part-time, remote. You interested?"
"I have a job."
"I'm not asking you to quit. I'm asking if you want to build something." She pulled up her laptop, showing him code that made his mind spark with possibilities. "Twenty hours a week. You can work from home. Real money, not..." She glanced at his cart.
"Not $11.50 an hour," Michel finished. For the first time in months, he felt something crack open in his chest. Not hope exactly, but its cousin—possibility.